


In London, In Winter

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom John, Cold, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sharing Body Heat, Snuggly Winter Time Fic, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heat's out at 221B; Sherlock and John go under cover(s)!</p><p>My usual note applies: I reserve "Explicit" ratings for non-con/rape/graphic violence and use "Mature" for anything consenting adults might do together; this story contains graphic sexual language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In London, In Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/gifts).



> John references the temperature; he's talking in Celsius (3 C = about 38 F)

“I imagine it’s too much to ask that you help me with this?” John half-grumbles as he wrestles a heavy, awkward box into the flat; he’d met the delivery man downstairs and immediately wished he’d been just five minutes later and missed him. He’d already smashed his fingers between the box and the wall three times on the way up the stairs, excellent start to his Friday night. There is no reply from Sherlock, and John drops the box onto the floor with a heavy thud. “Hope it’s not fragile,” he says bitterly, not much caring whether it is or not.

Sherlock is stretched sideways across his big leather chair, bare feet dangling over one arm, his head resting on the other. He is dressed in his soft cotton pyjama bottoms and one of John’s pullovers, which fits him strangely—sleeves too short, strip of pale abdomen bare below the shirt’s hem. His eyes are closed but John knows that he is not asleep.

“Sherlock.”

No response.

John starts to take off his coat; it is sodden with snow. “Jesus, it’s freezing in here! It’s as cold in here as it is outside.” He moves to look at the thermostat, then reaches for the nearest heat vent, touches it and finds it cold. “Sherlock.” Louder, more commanding this time.

Still nothing.

John goes to the kitchen, where there is a little floral-printed card tented on the table. A note from Mrs Hudson saying that she doesn’t want to pay for a service call for the heat on a weekend and get gouged on the price, and with the bank holiday Monday, she’s gone to her sister’s. You boys are young, you can get by until Tuesday can’t you? Let the hot taps drip so the pipes don’t freeze!

“Fantastic,” John curses. He keeps his coat on, considers his options.

“Remind you of anything?” Sherlock intones suddenly, and the only part of him that moves is his mouth.

“Has the heat been out all day? If you would’ve texted me, I’d have called someone to fix it earlier, for god’s sake.”

Sherlock waves one long-fingered hand dismissively. “Snowing, I see,” he says, though clearly he hasn’t seen a thing, as his eyes are still shut.

John huffs annoyance. “Package for you.”

“Scandinavia,” Sherlock says lazily, lingering a half-beat too long on every syllable.

“ _What?_ ” John realizes what he has seen, Sherlock barely dressed in the ice-cold flat; he crosses the room and lays a hand on Sherlock’s bare ankle. His skin is too cool. “It can’t be more than three or four degrees in here, you idiot.” He grabs one of Mrs Hudson’s knitted throws from the sofa, spreads it over Sherlock, tucks it around his hips, wraps it around his feet and then begins to rub them through it, trying to raise the circulation. “You could lose toes. How long have you been lying here in the cold?”

“Snowed in,” Sherlock says, and one eye comes partway open. “In Scandinavia.” His lips quirk up at one corner.

John keeps rubbing his feet through the blanket; he has lowered himself to sit on the arm of the chair. “Ah,” he says softly, and feels himself unwind slightly. “Right.”

“You were so _sweet_ ,” Sherlock says, and he’s teasing but there’s tenderness creeping in at the corners. “First time kissing a _boy_ , was it?”

“You’re no boy,” John retorts.

“Nevermind that.” Sherlock’s hand lands in the crease of John’s hip. “Let’s pretend. Kiss me again for the first time.”

“We were drunk.” John is smiling, releases Sherlock’s feet, shifts to lean closer to his reclining body.

“ _Pretend_.” Urgent, bordering on exasperated.

“Northern lights,” John says. “Romantic atmosphere.”

Sherlock is tugging at John’s shirt now, trying to drag him closer. With his other hand he makes a wide sweep of the flat. “What could be more romantic?”

“Not having a flat full of your mess, for one,” John says, and stands, catching Sherlock’s hand in his. “Come on.” He begins to pull Sherlock upright, walk them toward the bedroom. “We were under a duvet.”

Sherlock raises the corner of the knit blanket, offering.

“It’s easier in the bed,” John says then, smile now full of mischief. “I can put you into any shape I like.”

Sherlock gives a dirty smile then, and lets himself be led.

Once in the bedroom, John motions Sherlock onto the never-made bed and drags the covers up over him, trailing fingers briefly through dark waves of hair. John shucks his coat and shoes, drops his trousers and slips into bed beside Sherlock, snuggling up close, seeking warmth, but Sherlock is bordering on hypothermic; his skin is cool, even the surfaces of his clothing are cold to the touch. John wraps an arm around him, and their legs tangle together so one of Sherlock’s is caught between John’s at the knees. Their faces nuzzle up close together, the tip of Sherlock’s nose a frigid shock against John’s cheek.

Sherlock whispers, “I remember it was like this, a bit, at first, just our faces close like this, and your breath smelled like caraway.” John sucks in the slightest gasp, and seeks Sherlock’s hand beneath the blankets, tangles up their fingers together. “You made that sound, just like that, just like you did now.”

“I was nervous.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you.”

Sherlock glides his lips across John’s jaw, his chin, catches the tender skin of his lip on end-of-day stubble, finds the corner of John’s mouth and hovers there. His lips move against John’s lips as he says, “Oh, you had me.”

“I know that now,” John says, and he releases Sherlock’s hand between their bodies so he can embrace him again, still trying to warm him. “ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” John whispers, and Sherlock does just that, nesting their lips together almost chastely. John hums affirmation, _it was just like this_. Sherlock’s lips part and his tongue licks out into John’s mouth and _yes, it was just like this_.

Sherlock’s bare feet against John’s as he shifts slightly in John’s embrace make John shiver and jump.

“God, you’re freezing,” he half-laughs, and although it’s barely possible for them to get closer together, still they try. John pulls the covers up tighter around their shoulders. Sherlock’s hand has found John’s shirttail and he slips his fingers beneath it, beneath his vest, to find deliciously warm belly-skin, and John sucks his teeth as icy fingers slip up and under, rucking up his shirtfront until Sherlock palms his pectoral muscle, rubs his thumb against John’s nipple, which beads up hard under his touch.

John’s hand slips over Sherlock’s clothes-rack hip bone clad in expensive, soft cotton, then down and around to cup one plush buttock, lightly stroking, then squeezing, and Sherlock huffs something like surprise and his tongue becomes urgent in John’s mouth; if there’s one thing John has learned it’s that if you fondle Sherlock’s pretty little arse, he’ll follow you anywhere.

They kiss some more, that reenacted first kiss forgotten in favour of this moment: cold air, hot skin, cool skin, warm breath, _come closer darling I’ll warm you up, your mouth is so warm, your feet are so cold, your hands are like ice, you make me so hot_.

“What about _now_?” Sherlock rumbles against John’s neck, and his hips have started to roll beneath John’s hand which has worked open his pyjama bottoms’ drawstring (“You made we wait to do this, then.” “I didn’t want you to think I was a slag.”) and slides over and around and across the bare, smooth skin of his backside. Sherlock growls, “Do you want me _now_?”

“God. . .”

Sherlock, heart pounding, blood rushing, is mostly warm now—just cool fingers and still-icy feet—and John grips his arse and pulls him closer, gets only semi-satisfying friction for a moment against Sherlock’s thigh still trapped between his own. Sherlock kisses his open mouth, his chin, his neck, he is on the move, tunneling, burrowing deep beneath the blankets and as he goes he is tugging at John’s boxers and John raises his hips to slide them off. John lifts the covers to watch Sherlock’s progress, settling on his knees, arse in the air, _god, so gorgeous_. Sherlock catches John behind his knees and pushes his legs up and back, rakes his fingertips through the fine hairs covering John’s thighs. John rearranges blankets until only his face is exposed to the cold, rests his head back on the pillow. . . _waits_.

Sherlock’s breath. Warm, moist, then cool as the fine coating of condensation evaporates. _A tease_. John hums encouragement. Sherlock’s fingers. Cold enough to be nearly uncomfortable, focusing John’s attention as they tickle across his bollocks, then just beneath, stroking downward, then vanishing.

“ _Sherlock_. . .”

 Sherlock replies with a self-satisfied hum that borders on a moan. A slight wet burble and then the fingertips are back, spit-slick and still cool, pressing against his perineum, stroking, then gently tickling over his hole, eliciting a needy sound from high in his throat. Sherlock hums again, hungrily, and then his tongue and lips—excessively wet and exquisitely warm—are working with fluttering licks and gentle sucks and John makes quick work of slicking up his own palm and fingertips with a wide swipe of his tongue, wraps his hand gratefully around his swollen, oozing prick and starts a slow-paced stroking.

Sherlock moans his approval and nods between John’s pushed-back thighs, his hair soft against John’s leg, and his tongue circles for a bit, then begins lapping at him, up. . .up. . .up. . .then higher, along his perineum so that the still-cool tip of Sherlock’s nose brushes his bollocks on the way by. . .up. . .up. . .up. . . and John’s free hand finds the back of Sherlock’s head, messily ruffles through his hair. Now Sherlock’s fingertip is flicking a rapid back-and-forth across John’s tight furl of muscle, and Sherlock’s lips make a little “o” on John’s balls and the tip of his tongue flickers a rapid back-and-forth there between his lips, in time with his fingertip.

 John groans luxuriantly and grips his cock a bit tighter, smoothing sticky-slick pre-cum along his length, then thumbing back his foreskin to expose more of the sensitive crown. He rolls his palm over it and lets out a low moan around Sherlock’s name, for now Sherlock’s finger is pressing into him, his cunning tongue beside it, stroking half-circles as Sherlock worms his finger in.

John pauses his stroking, brings his focus to that aching burn, that tender sensation of fullness, and wills himself to relax around it. Sherlock pauses, draws his finger partway out, taps John’s thigh as if reminding him of something, and John’s arm flings out to the top of the bedside table, fingers fumbling and searching until he lays hands on the little plastic bottle of slippery and passes it down beneath the blankets. There is a quick sound of teeth on plastic as Sherlock flicks the lid open one-handed, and he rests his head on John’s inner thigh, turns to kiss it quickly, then grunts out a little laugh. John is wondering what this is about when it hits him: the positively frigid drizzle of the slick as it lands on what is—it could be argued—usually the very warmest part of his body. He shouts. Sherlock laughs again.

There is a muffled, “Sorry,” from beneath the blankets, more soothing kisses against the inside of John’s thigh.

“You’re not. You laughed.”

“ _So_ sorry,” Sherlock rumbles, and his skinny fingers slip out of John, slide through the trail of slick, then slip back in, two all the way past the knuckle, and Sherlock shifts his body so that the blankets are yanked downward, toward John’s waist. His shirt is still up around his chest and the shock of the room’s cool air against his skin is startling; he quickly rearranges the covers over both of them. Sherlock is humming, working his fingers in and out, parting them from each other to stretch John open, and soon enough the slippery is as warm as their bodies, and John sinks back into the luxury of his lover’s long, bony fingers inside him, always edge-of-too-much yet he always wants

“More.”

John moans and takes himself in hand again, eliciting an affirmative noise from Sherlock, _yes, yes, it’s lovely, let’s have more of that please, and you’d like more of this? More?_ Sherlock has drawn his fingers back, presses outward around the ring of muscle, then slides a third finger in beside the first two, and John loses track of the movements of his fingers except that it is _more_ and it is _good_ and he is _dying of it_. Genius, indeed.

It isn’t long before Sherlock is on the move again, and now he is really shifting all the blankets in a decidedly unpleasant way, and every time the edges lift it’s as if there is actual wind blowing through the room, it’s so damn cold. John grunts and yanks at the quilts and suddenly here is Sherlock, his elbow planted beside John’s shoulder, his face nuzzling its way from John’s clavicle, up the side of his throat, and then there is the warm, damp velvet of Sherlock’s tongue against his earlobe, and there is a fumbling in the general vicinity of John’s wide-spread arse, and Sherlock gulps and holds his breath and _there it is, oh yes there, yes more, more,_

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

 _more for fuck’s sake,_ and Sherlock’s cock pushes past the ring of muscle that wants to hold him at bay, a maddening, delicious, perfect slow slide that makes them both grunt out held breath John swears he can see puffing out of them as steam into the semi-dark of the bedroom. Fucking cold. But.

Sherlock rolls his hips slowly, sliding his prick back and away and it is a thrill of threatened loss for John and he whines a bit, reaches again for his prick and starts to pull _, it won’t be long now, he’ll try not to hurry but_

“Jesus. Christ. Sherlock. _Fuck me_.”

No more encouragement is needed; Sherlock is playing Lowell’s _Lover’s Waltz_ in his head, perfect slow-mid-tempo and John’s breathing is becoming ragged as Sherlock slides _up_ -and-back and _up_ -and-back, the heat of John’s body around him is intense, magnificent, Sherlock sinks into sensation of fluttering muscle, soft tissue, hard ridges, _heat, heat, so hot_. . .He opens his mouth to press his teeth against John’s neck, groans long and low.

John’s legs come up around Sherlock’s waist then, trapping him, encouraging him

“Deeper. _Harder_.”

John is jerking his cock harder now, out of time with Sherlock’s movements, he wants it _faster, harder, more, more, more_

“more. . .more. . .Sherlock more, oh god _yes_ fuck _yes_ , more, _fuck, **more**_ ”

Sherlock is tipping, tilting, rocking at the edge, doesn’t do as John says but instead maintains his waltz-time. He will quiver here on the precipice and not go over it, because it is exquisite, John’s heat, tight and slick and hot, so hot.

“ _Sherlock!_ Fuck me fuck me fuck. . . _fuck!_ ” Emphatic, decisive, John bites off the crisp end of the word and he is coming, one final slide of his hand and then he just rides it out, lets his cum pulse out onto his belly, and Sherlock’s, and deep inside him his muscles tense and clutch in sympathy, and Sherlock relishes it, and at last he does fuck harder, deeper, more, _more_

“Yes, that’s gorgeous, can you feel me? Feel me holding you? Wanting you deeper inside me? God Sherlock _fuck me_ , yes, hard, hard, **_hard_** ”

Sherlock’s mouth is open, breath hot and dry, spit slipping out the corners of his mouth to wend a trail down John’s neck, he is desperately fucking him. . .Hard. . . _Hard._ . . ** _Hard_**.

Sherlock raises his head, arching his neck as if in agony, red-faced, veins standing out on his temples and forehead, and he thrusts in **_hard_** and groans deep and long as he comes, and the sensation of his cock pulsing inside John’s heat— _tight_ heat, so hot, fuck!—is so brilliant he wonders why he held himself back from it.

He lets his breathing settle from heaving to shallow, backs out his half-hard cock (which elicits a quiet gasp and a long _mmmmm_ from John that trickles down the back of Sherlock’s neck), settles beside John on the bed. John groans with the different pleasure of straightening and stretching his legs.

“Here,” Sherlock says, voice hoarse, throat dry. He wriggles and tugs his way out of John’s pullover and mops at their bellies with it, wiping away John’s cum, then tosses it overboard.

“You’ll freeze,” John protests. “I’ll get you clothes. You need socks, too.” He starts to roll but Sherlock is out of bed in an instant, opening the wardrobe, yanking at drawers, and he returns to the bed momentarily with an armload of t-shirts and pyjamas and jumpers and track pants and socks and they dress beneath the blankets, tangling themselves and each other, trying not to let their body heat escape from between the sheets, and then they are embracing again, and they both look like rag-bag children, but they are warm, except for their noses and ears.

John yawns; it’s early but he’s just been well and truly, thoroughly _fucked_ and anyway it’s cold and he doesn’t want to leave the bed. Sherlock tucks his curled fist into the space between John’s shoulder and neck. Mrs Hudson’s knitted throw is wound around their heads, on the pillow. The lamp by the bed is still on but John can’t contemplate taking his hand from beneath the blankets, off Sherlock’s hip, which is radiant with warmth at last.

“No heat until Tuesday; this is mad,” John murmurs. “We’ll get a hotel room. Tomorrow.”

“It was in a hotel room. The first time,” Sherlock replies, and he noses John’s cheek. “First time you kissed a boy,” he teases, but there’s nothing in it but affection now.

“You complained about _everything_.”

“Not everything.”

“No. No, that’s true,” John agrees, and kisses him. “Not everything.”

 

-END-

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic references the very first Johnlock kiss I ever wrote--aww!--which happens in my story called "In Scandinavia"
> 
> Tumblristas, follow me at fuckyeahfightlock or poppyalexander-fic (or both)


End file.
